Held but not Seen
by SilverCascade
Summary: "I came to say goodbye." The pause was short, the only sound the spilling of edible beads kissing her limbs inch by inch. And his breathing, which refused to slow down. "He'll be here soon." Zacharie/Sugar, pre-canon. One-shot.


"It was our hands that were supposed to be full, of the future; which could be held but not seen."  
- Margret Atwood, _The Handmaid's Tale_

* * *

Standing in the dull room, windowless and quiet, he noticed the contrast now more than ever. Between him and her, and the people they used to be. Between what he wanted to happen, and how the world was going to end.

The woman - no, still a girl - wasn't herself anymore, just as much as he wasn't himself. Limbs stretched over the earthy floor, hands and feet soaked in those tiny pearls that clumped at a touch, a head of matching hair thrown back into another pile of sweetness. His tongue would never touch them, or her, in that way again. She belonged to the corpses now, to Enoch. She was so beautiful at this distance. But if he stepped too close, the fumes would take him too, rank odours curling from her body; the gaps in her smashed teeth would reveal themselves when she smirked. Tiny holes winked between the creases and folds of skin when she moved, where the medicine was eating her from the inside out. The dream was beautiful; the reality, hideous.

"Buenos Dias," he said, lightheartedly playing the air with his words. The face of the Frog King lay in his hands; he didn't conceal himself with her. She had seen things that were far worse than his face. Yet he couldn't bring himself to use her name. The taste of it wasn't so easy to vanquish.

"Do you want to dance with me?" The voice was small, empty, and around her feet were the tangles of a stick and thread attached to small skulls. Too small to be the cows, too small to be Elsen.

He walked to her, two steps with confidence and one with apprehension, and stalled. But the shine flung itself into his eyes and he pulled the box from the mountains, tucking it under his arm. The metal was icy against his skin, warmed by the room's increasing heat. To see the prize discarded, the remnant of the battle that had almost killed them both, made his head ache. A urge to wind the stick around and release a melody was suppressed.

"I came to say goodbye." The pause was short, the only sound the spilling of edible beads kissing her limbs inch by inch. And his breathing, which refused to slow down. "He'll be here soon."

"He'll do it?" Detached, disinterested, only keeping time with the present; it was impressive she still responded to him. She didn't blink when anyone else visited, said the Elsen. A crawling of tiny feet over his arms, and he realized she responded only to him.

"I hope he does."

She laughed then, gargling and tinkling all at once, and stopped. "Send him to me for a dance, please! I want to finish this."

He walked out without looking back. Every step felt hard under the soles of his thin shoes. The air outside was colder. Not a hair on his head swayed, for the wind had lost interest in movement a long time ago. As if he would let that happen. As if he would let anything like that ever happen to her. The God would not touch her. He'd kill them all, or they would kill him.

Ascending the steps grew more and more difficult each time he left her there, underground and alone. But knowing this was the last time, and that nothing more could touch her, made it somewhat more manageable. Once the floods came, the ambient flotation devices to which they had clung, hands chapped and clutching each others' crooked fingers, meant nothing. Tainted water eroded all, and the world was cleansed even before the new Goddess showed her blank face. There was no more screaming when she descended. But those four writhing arms meant nothing, not after what those from the old days had seen. He wished he could start again like the Elsen. Not that he wanted to, voluntarily, but it had to be better than living in limbo, torn between one world and the next.

It was funny, because when he was a boy, younger still, the flood used to be green. Green and glowing and contained in barrels. But it didn't happen like that. Those barrels created Gods, those barrels did not ruin purity. Those barrels were as much a lie as the yellowed soil of today, of the meat fountains that would have once been bizarre, of the crumbling dictatorship of the Guardians over their beloved, renewed, Elsen. Everything was a lie. He understood, sometimes, why she chose her namesake so. The powder was a drug, the powder was as valuable as gold had been in those days. He enjoyed the amusement park; when the blood threatened to leak from your eyes because you were travelling so fast, you didn't worry about much else.

Her name was not Sugar. His name was not Zacharie. When the times changed, they stole these identities and donned them like cloaks, separating into the new world. When looking for purpose, they found themselves. Her amongst the mounds, swollen and altering her head to forget, and he amongst the currency, papers and numbers to collect and obsess.

The Frog King's face was sat upon his again, and he blinked. A smile was easier to wear when it was false, so he smiled under the mask three times for luck. Not that such a concept existed anymore; green bile of machines swallowed that, too. Shuffling his shoulders backwards and forwards, he swung the backpack of carefully collected wares onto them and took steps to the starting line. Pablo would be waiting nearby. How funny, a beast retaining its real name. Even that feisty little cat wouldn't be late on such an important occasion.

The Prophet was coming, and it was their job to help him become a God. Though creatures of any sort can destroy substance, only Gods can destroy love.


End file.
